#orlando moonwater

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story 4: Blood

Disclaimer: Post-Game Spoilers!!!!!!

Previous Story, Next Story

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for the fic as a whole

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Chapter Summary: Astarion wakes from a familiar nightmare, but finds comfort in the knowledge that he is not alone.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, blood, fluff, angst, hurt, comfort, snuggling

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Astarion feels his lungs fill with dirt and ash, clogging his chest. It stifles him, fuzzy moss growing on the surface of his organs, filling the empty space between bone and flesh. He tastes peat on his lips, lips that seep dark ichor with each scrape against the sharpened edges of his fangs. Fangs that rip and shred and taste of iron and death. The sleek muscle of his tongue grazes fibrous scraps of blood clots, trapped in the spaces between his teeth. He tries to move his limbs, but the earth piling on top of him is too heavy, too crushing. Astarion is small and insignificant, a tiny pebble amongst the mountain of dirt surrounding him. A figure lords over the elf, smiling coldly. Cazador’s wicked, gleaming eyes glint as he lets out a low, mocking laugh before shrouding Astarion in endless darkness.

But as the shadows engulf him, Astarion gasps for air and, thankfully, manages to fill his lungs. Gone is the stuffy moss, the clumps of choking dirt. A tender hush, a gentle caress pulls him from this familiar nightmare. 

“Shhh,” Orlando’s voice reaches out, anchoring him to reality, “It’s okay, Astarion. You’re safe. You’re here with me and you’re safe. You’re home and you’re safe.” 

His eyes search blindly, the remnants of his night terror a near impenetrable fog. He seeks her through scent, jasmine and musk, the metal of her blood blooming in his nose, near and warm. He does not need sight to know his beloved, grasping desperately at her form before the room has a chance to swim back into his vision. His surroundings are plush, soft, and comforting. Deeply, gratefully familiar. He focuses on the sound of the crackling fire in the hearth, the gentle rush of the waves just outside the cottage windows.

Home, Astarion repeats in his mind, over and over like a mantra, I’m home. I’m home and I’m safe. We’re home. Together. And we’re safe.

Orlando’s gentility engulfs him, arms holding his shuddering form close, the thrum of her heart pounding in his ears. 

“You’re safe, my love,” she repeats, over and over in whispered reassurance, rocking Astarion back and forth. His fingers dig into her nightgown, his grasp on her desperate, fearful that if he lets go, Cazador might crawl out from the shadows and drag him away. 

“He’s gone,” Orlando gently reminds, her breath fanning through his hair, voice low and calm, “He’s gone and he’s never coming back. You’re safe.” 

It’s not been long enough for Astarion to believe this. There’s some piece of him that still thinks he’ll never be free of Cazador. Never be free of his tyranny. In a sense, he never will be. He will never feel the sun on his skin again. Never gaze upon himself in any reflective surfaces. His hunger will always be sanguine. Darkness will forever be his home. Maybe, overtime, he will learn to accept these things. Maybe, he will learn to cope. But for now, Astarion allows himself to sob into the crook of his beloved’s neck, his tears soaking the collar of her nightclothes. He lets Orlando litter tiny kisses amongst the snowy curls atop his head and rub small circles into his scarred back. He lets himself be comforted knowing that he is not alone in the world. Not anymore. And perhaps that’s all he can ask for for now. 

A/N: A short chapter to get back into the swing of things with this fic :) It's been a while since I last updated. I'm thinking I'll have the next chapter of this one out relatively soon, though. Most of it is written, it just needs to go through some editing on my end. I hope you are all doing well and that life is treating you well! Lots of love <3

[bohememe]

✨NEW on the BLOG✨ . Good morning and happy Friday the 13th! Over on the blog today, I’m sharing how to make moon water for your coming lunar month, and what a perfect time since tonight is the full moon! ����🖤✨ Come see how it’s done at BohemeMe.com. Just click the #linkinmybio! . #bohoblogger #moonwater #bohodiy #selfcarefriday (at College Park (Orlando)) https://www.instagram.com/p/B2WjxU5B2UA/?igshid=165ivfsny2vgk

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story 5: Marrow

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Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for the fic as a whole

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Chapter Summary: Astarion reflects on what life could have been like if he and Orlando had met on the streets of Baldur's Gate before the Illithid threat and the Absolute.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, body horror, eldritch, fluff, angst, hurt

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Astarion gazes at her from across the breakfast table, watching every little motion his beloved makes as she prepares her evening tea. Any morning routine she once had has become an evening routine now, thanks to him. Orlando doesn't seem to mind, adjusting without complaint to her vampiric partner’s odd hours. But he can see the dark shadows under her eyes, the hollows of exhaustion that have made their home on her cheeks. There’s a glassiness to the Tiefling’s once fiery gaze that suggests she hasn't been sleeping well, a sort of dazed look. It takes her a moment to realize why there’s nothing pouring out of the kettle and into her cup. She’d put it over the fire with hardly any water in it, and any that was left inside evaporated almost instantly. Orlando merely laughs at her mistake, shaking her head at her own folly. But Astarion can see the frustration in her, the fatigue. 

“Let me, darling,” he offers before Orlando can stand up, taking over the duty of preparing a nice warm drink for her. Over the days, guilt has been creeping into Astarion’s heart. He thinks back on all the people he’s lured, all the lives he’s ruined, and wonders if he’s doing exactly that to Orlando. There may be no crypt to lure her back to, but a life lived in shadow is a crypt in its own right. 

When he meets Orlando’s weary gaze, he harkens back to days before tadpoles, nautiloids, and giant brains. He imagines her, sitting in a tavern, all alone, huddled in a dark corner, silently taking everything in. He catches her glancing at the door every so often, shifting anxiously in her chair, waiting for someone. Someone that never shows up, perhaps. In this daydream, Orlando looks terribly lonely and entirely too welcoming when he catches her eye. If he’d met her before the tadpoles, Astarion would’ve sauntered his way over to her, slid into the nearest chair, and gone to work trying to utterly beguile and bedazzle her. 

Only now does he know that she would have likely been waiting for Gortash. And only now does he realize that that is, perhaps, an ire he would not have wanted to provoke. But he wouldn’t have known that at the time. He merely would’ve recognized a lonely soul and pounced.

Maybe it wouldn’t have worked. Orlando could have denied him. Or gods-forbid, that sniveling arms-dealer-turned-politician could’ve shown up, and Astarion would have been forced to return to his master empty-handed and facing severe punishment. Worse, though, is that it is very possible his charm could have won over Orlando.

He pictures the way her eyes would have lit up when he talked to her, the blush dusting her cheeks when his hand brushed hers. He’d have whispered sweet nothings, empty promises into her naive ears. And shared some made-up story that might’ve made Orlando pity him, something to strike a chord in her own sorrow. With his fingers interlaced with hers, Astarion would’ve coaxed the Tiefling out of that tavern and into his predatory embrace. 

On the empty city-streets, he’d have paused under the glow of a streetlamp, traced his thumb over the bow of Orlando’s soft lips, and commented on how lovely she looked in the evening light. 

“Like the sea come to life,” he’d have cooed, laying his lips featherlight to her wrists. Leaning in, Astarion would’ve stolen her breath away with a singular, passionate kiss, sealing the deal. She would’ve been all his. Well, not his. Orlando would have belonged to Cazador, but she wouldn’t have known that at that moment. Not yet. Instead, Orlando would be smiling away, giddy and over the moon, ignorant of the imminent danger she was in. 

Orlando would’ve looked at him in the twinkling starlight with absolute wonderment. She would have looked at him the way she does now: like Astarion is the most important, most marvelous person to ever exist. And it would have absolutely destroyed him. He wonders if she would’ve seen the desperation in his gaze. Perhaps Orlando would’ve had enough sense to recognize a lost soul by the way Astarion’s crimson eyes would have silently been pleading for help. 

In this wretched false memory, Orlando would press her lips to his, tender and sweet. The Astarion of the past, wrapped up in Orlando’s gentility, would lose himself for a while. And when he would pull her closer, when her carefree laughter would fill his ears, the vitriol in his bones would start to simmer and evaporate. Astarion would feel lighter for a moment. For a fleeting second, Astarion would have thought that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t need to take Orlando back to Cazador. Maybe he could spare her, run away with her. This wouldn’t have been the first time he’d thought this with someone he’d had to lure back, and it wouldn’t be the last. But he’d be reminded of the pain, the fear that his master would inflict upon him should he disobey. So Astarion would carry on, with Orlando blissfully unaware of the doom that awaited her.

In the present, as he quietly watches Orlando’s weary gaze scan yesterday’s paper, Astarion imagines the look of betrayal that would have been in her kind eyes once Cazador finally got his hands on her. The very thought shatters him. Astarion presented himself to her, polished and poised, charismatic and utterly captivating. Orlando would have taken the bait, been promised the unparalleled company of a beautiful elf with hair and skin like the light of the moon above. But, too late, the Tiefling would have realized she’d been had. Astarion wouldn’t have known her fate then, but now he knows all too well what would have happened. Orlando would have met the same end as so many countless others: either used as sustenance for his master or turned, just like Astarion. 

“Dear heart,” Orlando’s voice hushes, breaking through Astarion’s thoughts. When he returns to the present, he’s seated at the kitchen table, brows knit and forehead crinkled with worry. 

“What troubles you?” she whispers, smoothing her thumb over the back of his hand. He frowns, taking in her gaze, letting it penetrate whatever soul he has left. 

“Sometimes,” he starts slowly, eyes searching the face of his beloved, “When there’s poison in your marrow, you hope that someone comes along and decides you look worthy enough to consume.”

Orlando raises an eyebrow at him, perhaps in intrigue, perhaps in concern. But she remains silent, letting him carry on with his metaphor. Astarion wonders if he’s let her rub off on him, this sudden poetic surge more befitting of one who has spent much of their time in the company of devils. He scowls at himself, wondering if he’s acting a fool. But the look Orlando gives him is one of patience and gentle encouragement. With a sigh, Astarion goes on. 

“Like your flesh holds colors vivid and lively enough for someone to want to imbue in their own being, in their own body and soul. And so- you hope that they might break you open, crack apart your bones, and suck out the fatty poison from within.”

“But-” he pauses, face falling, a well of self-hatred boiling over into his chest, “Deep in the rotted fibers of your heart, you know that this will only ruin them.” 

He laughs sardonically, gesturing to himself, “A fine looking meal, putrid from the inside out.”

Beautiful and fetid, he thinks, scowling at a nearby pot that reflects only Orlando and not him. 

He imagines Orlando, her head slamming down on the table with an unceremonious clatter of utensils, face buried in a silver plate littered with scraps of tendon and gristle- contorted and pallid. The very thought turns his stomach and with each image that flashes in his mind, the sensation of disgust builds and builds within him. It lashes inward, hatred piercing the fragile piece of Astarion that cowers in the dark shadow of undeath. Until it pierces too deep, and anger gives way to vacuous, penetrating sorrow. When Astarion glances up to meet Orlando’s eye, the seething rage dissipates. Her gaze has softened, face now pinched with worry. She hasn’t let go of his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. 

You’ve got poison in your marrow, Astarion, some familiar voice whispers to him again. Perhaps it’s his own. Or Cazador’s. Did one of his victims say this to him? Dying curses hissed through a gurgle of blood trapped in their throat? 

“You realize- quite suddenly- they’ve choked on your vitriolic blood,” Astarion finishes, just barely above a whisper.  

Now it’s Orlando’s turn to frown, to cast her gaze down at the table and let her eyes flood with sorrow. 

“I’m all too familiar with that feeling,” she returns, voice gentle and low. A pang of recognition gives way to a sinking feeling of tactlessness in Astarion. Of course, Orlando understands this feeling. For her entire life, she’s been either weaponized by her family or kept as a pretty bauble in the curio cabinet of a devil. Within her, just as within Astarion, she has housed a power both wondrous and terrible. Tragedy lurks around every corner for her just as it has for him. 

Astarion opens his mouth, either to apologize for his indelicate commentary or, and more likely, to make some quip about it, but Orlando beats him to speech.

“Astarion, there’s no poison in your marrow. Not any more or less than anyone else,” she reasons with a humorless chuckle, “Aren’t we all a little broken? Aren’t we all in need of a bit of support? You included?” 

He feels foolish. This is a discussion they’ve had a million times already, on both sides. When one of them is feeling sorry for themselves, the other steps in to remind them that they’re not alone, they’re loved and appreciated, etcetera, etcetera. But everything feels so raw, so new. It’s only been a year since the defeat of the Absolute. It’s only now that Astarion feels like he can settle, like he can breathe again. But even still, living a normal life feels, well- foreign to him. Over two-hundred years spent in the shadows, spent in captivity. This freedom feels both wonderful and utterly terrifying. Halting, in many ways. Like at any moment it could be ripped out from underneath him. Or like somehow, he might ruin it.

Orlando’s fatigue sparks in him an insecurity he hardly wants to admit. Will she become fed up with this life? With him? Will she leave one day, frustrated by the exhaustion, the confinement to darkness? Is moonlight and starlight enough for her? Will she miss the sun on her skin? Will she come to hate the two permanent pinpoint scars on her neck? 

Parasite, whispers over and over, echoing hollowly in Astarion’s thoughts.

“You’re exhausted, my love,” he finally returns, brows knit as he encloses Orlando’s hand in his, “You can’t carry on like this.”

She smiles warmly, affection flooding her hazel gaze, “I am adjusting. It might just take me a while.”

“Don’t you miss the daylight? You know, you don’t have to change your schedule just for me. You dreadful morning-people confound me, but I’d hate to disrupt something that inexplicably worked for you,” he jokes, though underneath his sarcasm lie tremors of anxiety. Orlando laughs, but as she does so, an image of her projects in Astarion’s mind: young Orlando, broken and sunburnt, bloodied and crusted in sea salt, lying on jagged rocks in the middle of a deathly calm sea. He can feel the fear, the thirst, the scorching pain as if it is his very own. The sun has never been kind to her, a thought that both pains and relieves Astarion.

The images shift, and now Astarion can see Orlando huddling against the slippery rocks of a dark grotto. Except the Tielfling is no longer a Tiefling. Surrounding her horns is a crown of dark tentacles, undulating and curling as if tasting the very air around them. Her eyes hold infinity in them, celestial bodies and twinkling stars shimmering in a gaze that seems to pierce the fabric of reality. Her chest gapes open, razor-sharp teeth protruding from a maw that bisects her torso. With each breath from this strange mouth, Astarion is met with hundreds of dark, glittering eyes staring back at him, hidden amongst the gummy flesh within Orlando. This form is almost incomprehensible to him, yet he has seen it countless times before. As swiftly as this image appeared to him, however, is as swiftly as Orlando draws it back into her. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs, squeezing her eyes shut and covering them with the heels of her palm, “I didn’t mean to do that.” 

Orlando’s eldritch heritage has given her some amount of telepathy, with or without a tadpole buried in her brain. Since the insertion of the Illithid hitchhiker, and subsequent death of it, Orlando’s powers have been a bit unstable. She is having to relearn how to control them, one toddling step at a time.

After a moment to recenter herself, Orlando speaks, “Things may be rough right now. We’re both so new to a life of normalcy, of peace. I don’t remember the last time I didn’t have to look over my shoulder or I wasn’t worried about survival. It feels overwhelming. But I promise you, I’ll be fine. We will be fine. Together.”

She squeezes his hand tight and presses a lingering kiss to the inside of Astarion’s wrist.

“Whatever tomorrow brings, I am with you,” she breathes. Her conviction convinces him that perhaps she is right, but worry has already rooted in Astarion’s heart, worry that will be difficult to shake.

A/N: I've been sitting on this chapter for a long time. It's actually the first one I wrote for this fic, before any of the preceding chapters, actually. It was originally going to be a one-shot, but then I had more short story ideas so this fic has evolved from there.

Wanted to include a brief description of Orlando's alternate, eldritch form :) If you'd like to read more about that, I have a fic I'm working on called "In Our Youth" that is all about Orlando's childhood and backstory, including her relationship with Gortash! The first chapter is up on my AO3 and Tumblr!

Astarion's dialogue in this one, regarding poison marrow and what not, stemmed from a short poem I had written, but I kind of liked it for the context of Astarion talking about his experiences with luring people back to Cazador. I think he'd also start to pick up some of Orlando's poetic tendencies after being together for a while, so I thought it would be fun to explore that a bit, too :) Who knows, maybe Astarion will pick up poetry in his free time now that he's not having to worry about tadpoles and the destruction of the realm. Anyways, enough rambling from me! I have a couple comments across various fics I need to respond to, which I will get to soon. I promise! I hope you are all having a lovely week! Thank you so very much for reading! Lots of love <3

[bakuliwrites]

Slowly but surely working on my next Tavtash fic :) It’s been a crazy busy week, but I’m hoping to have more time this weekend to work on this and one of my Arcana fics. Anyway, felt like sharing a bit so here’s a little excerpt! TW: Body Horror (symbolic but it’s still body horror)

And yet she remains painfully soft with him. Soul crushingly gentle. She roots around in the putrid flesh beneath his ribs, fingers searching desperately amongst the ravaged remains of his organs. Tenderly, Orlando unearths a tiny bolus, a leftover morsel of Enver's innocence, his grace. So carefully, she untangles it from the mess of moldering sinew in his chest and cradles it against her breast. For a moment, this piece of Enver seems to glow, a tiny point of light in a shadow-wreathed abyss. A star cupped in her celestial hands. She holds amber in her grasp, and in it is trapped a piece of him that long has been forgotten. Neglected.

[bakuliwrites]

Fun Facts About Your Tav

Orlando

Thank you so so much for tagging me @kalmiaphlox!!!!! I appreciate it so much! Loved seeing your Tav, Hircine! Sorry this took me so long to get to.

Tagging @elinorbard, @inkymoonbunny, and @bardic-inspo, and anyone else who would like to share their Tav/Durge!

Working on drawing Orlando more, so artwork to come. I have some drawings I made of her aesthetic here like a year ago, if you are curious :) Anyways, here's some info about Orlando! Some basic info before we start: Orlando is a tiefling (a Deep Sea Tiefling homebrew kinda deal, so that's what her whole aesthetic is supposed to be) and she is a Sorlock!

Is your character good, evil, or neutral (makes some good decisions, some bad ones)?

Orlando is probably Chaotic Good. She tries her best to be a good person, and believes strongly in freedom for herself and others. But she has a bit of a vengeful streak (She is a sorlock, but I think she would've made a good paladin, too, honestly). She's not above seeking out revenge on the people that have wronged others, especially those she cares about.

What hobbies do they partake in?

Orlando enjoys writing, reading, and alchemy. When she was little, she loved all of the stories her mother used to tell her and would come up with her own tales. I think if she were to finally settle down, she'd want to write her own adventure stories or children's books! She is also constantly mixing potions in camp and stopping to collect every herb and plant she can possibly find. She picked up this hobby/craft from her mother, who was an expert potion maker!

Do they own any heirlooms from their family or ancestors?

Orlando keeps a locket with a scale from her mother and a scale from her brother. It is her most prized possession and she would never part with it. She carries it with her throughout her adventures and is grateful that she didn't lose it when she was captured by the Illithid.

Can your character cook?

Yes! Orlando loves to cook, and she loves to help Gale cook at camp. Though she was born into nobility, she and her mother and brother eventually escaped it. They had to make a life for themselves, so cooking was essential for survival in her later childhood. Orlando also finds cooking relaxing and can lose herself in the creativity of it. It's a bit like creating a potion to her!

Does your character have a best friend?

Orlando's brother, Cían, and a young dragonborn boy named Torinn were her best friends growing up. But Torinn eventually (supposedly-more on that later) moved away, and Orlando was separated from her brother when they were eleven. After that, Enver became her best friend when they lived in the HOH together. Amongst the companions, however, Karlach, Astarion, and Wyll swiftly become Orlando's best friends :)

Their biggest fear?

Losing her freedom, and losing herself to the eldritch powers that haunt her family. She's worked hard to build a life for herself, to free herself from the tyranny of her youth. Losing that independence is terrifying to her, and with the insertion of the tadpole, her worst fears are slowly coming true.

Name one of their red flags.

Her loyalty to Gortash. She can be convinced to betray him, but it's really hard for Orlando to abandon someone that has meant so very much to her over the course of her life. Her loyalty can be a green flag, but it can also be a pretty serious red flag if it goes too far.

[bakuliwrites]

Snippet Sunday

Thank you for tagging me in Snippet Sunday last weekend, @elinorbard! :D I wasn't able to post anything last weekend, so here is a little something this Sunday. Working on the next couple chapters of Dark Star- In Our Youth, which features Enver and my Tav, Orlando, during the years they were in the House of Hope. Here's a letter a teenage Orlando wrote to a teenage Enver. BG3 SPOILERS (Just in case!)

Enver! Yesterday, in my afternoon studies, I learned a new word: demiurgic. I keep repeating it to myself. Demiurgic, demiurgic... It's sort of funny sounding, don't you think? And lovely, in its own special sort of way. But I think I like what it means most: an autonomous creative force, a decisive power. I think you are demiurgical (demiurgic? Forgive me, I'm still figuring out how to use it correctly). You are a creative powerhouse. I think you will take the world by storm someday with your inventions. I hope I am around to see it happen. With adoration, Orlando

And here's another short little note, just for fun :) This occurs after Orlando shows Enver her true form (an eldritch, ascended form).

Orlando, I think that you are magic. Even if you do not think so. The world could fall to its knees at your feet, if you wanted it so. You are a constant source of intrigue, and I find my thoughts circling back to you often. If I have overstepped my bounds, you need only say the word and I will silence my tongue for good. But know that my mind will forever be eclipsed by you, my curious creature. Your beauty is eldritch, abyssal. Let not the words of small-minded wretches deter you from realizing your incredible potential. With fervor, Enver

Tagging you back @elinorbard, along with @verbenaa, @bardic-inspo, and anyone else who wants to play along!

[bakuliwrites]

WIP Wednesday

Here’s a sneak peek from a future chapter of Dark Star. Some Gortash x Tav :)

That night, Orlando dreams she is a tiny pearl, curled up on the tongue of an oyster. Gently, she is lifted from her briny bed, held so very carefully on an ink-stained fingertip. She can feel the ridges of Enver’s fingerprints underneath her iridescent body, prints so intimately familiar, she feels the ghost of her own skin pooling in them. He smiles affectionately, whispering promises that she will not adorn the necks of Devil’s or tyrant patriarchs. She will not crumble under the gaze of predatory eyes or dull in luster after years of abandonment. Instead, he will keep her close, keep her safe, a precious treasure meant for his eyes and his eyes, only.

[bakuliwrites]

OC Phone Game

Thank you for tagging me @elinorbard! This is such a cute idea.

Make your OC's phone with this picrew!

Orlando's phone doesn't have too much else going on other than her sparkly phone case and a background that matches her cosmic/deep sea aesthetic. She's a pretty private person, so it usually remains locked. She is a fan of anything that glimmers, but isn't terribly over the top about it.

And I had to add Bakuli's phone (my Arcana fan apprentice). Hers is a lot more loud, whimsical, and very pink! She's got a little tea charm to honor her love of the drink, and she's always got a notebook with her to jot down some poetry. Bakuli loves all things soft, so the fuzzy phone case seems perfect for her haha.

Tagging @kalmiaphlox, @inkymoonbunny, and anyone else who may want to participate!

[bakuliwrites]

💌 Post 4 pictures from Pinterest that describe your OC. Send this to 3 other blogs to keep the chain going! ~ a friend 💕💕

Thank you, thank you, my friend!!!! I don't have a Pinterest anymore, so I just pulled from Canva! Here's a little mood board for Orlando :)

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story Three: Adrenaline

Disclaimer: Post-Game Spoilers!!!!!!

Previous Story, Next Story

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Chapter Summary: Orlando and Astarion decide to break in their new bed, which brings up some complicated memories for them both.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, Smut, fluff, angst, cock-warming, vaginal sex, blood drinking (Astarion feeding), discussions of past trauma, discussions of intimacy/intimacy issues, cuddling, telepathic connections, memory sharing

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Her adrenaline courses through him, fizzling in his veins, lightning sparking every nerve ending in Astarion’s body. She is inside him, her blood threading into the very makeup of him, weaving into his sinew and lacing his marrow with everything she is made of. Scales, teeth, and talons make their bittersweet marks on his pale skin. Mother-of-pearl, brine, and the stars encompass his vision. Safety, love, and devotion bury themselves in his unbeating heart.

Astarion’s teeth, sunk into Orlando’s neck, draw her warmth into his mouth, flooding his tongue with iron and ecstasy. Meanwhile, he is sheathed within her, cock kept warm by her cunt. Orlando inhales sharply before releasing a breathy, satisfied sigh. They are bound together, sticky sweat sealing skin to skin, fangs latching to flesh, her heat enveloping him. 

Orlando’s hips roll against Astarion’s one more time before she rests, allowing him to settle inside her while he has his fill of her blood. Too much movement and he’ll undoubtedly rip the Tiefling’s neck open, and that is the last thing he wants. Orlando’s nails drag softly through his snowy curls as she lays feathery kiss after feathery kiss to Astarion’s cheekbones. He listens to her slow, even breaths, the gentle pump of her heart, a pulse now beating inside him. Astarion can taste Orlando’s exhilaration, sparkling like champagne on his tongue. It’s the same elation, the same anticipation he tasted the very first time he drank from her, in what feels like ages ago now. It’s the same elation that flutters in his core every time he’s close to his beloved. There is a feeling of home in Orlando’s blood, of safety in the crook of her neck.

Sometimes, when he drinks from Orlando, Astarion’s mind wanders back to when they first met. His first taste of the blood of a thinking creature: drawn to Orlando’s scent like a moth to flame, Astarion had crept through the camp hoping the Tiefling might let him taste of her. Just once. She had seemed the easiest to drink from because she was the most amenable of the group. The friendliest. He had been correct in his assumption, finding himself lucky that she didn’t drive a stake through his heart. Orlando even went so far as to offer up her blood on a nightly basis.

Astarion’s thoughts then turn to the first time he and Orlando snuck off together and how much of a disaster that had been. Perhaps part of him felt like he owed her for giving up such a vital part of herself every night. That, and he had desperately been searching for safety with no real understanding of how to gain it. Regret slinks into his heart and he finds himself distracted by the memories of every time he felt like he had to trick Orlando into being close to him. Into keeping him safe.

Leave whatever distresses you in the past, dear heart, Orlando’s gentle voice whispers in Astarion’s mind. She senses his upset, though she would never read his mind without his permission. Astarion releases her neck for a moment, letting Orlando draw him back to the present with her lips, soft lips that taste of promise and home.

Astarion settles his thoughts, losing himself once again in the metal on his tongue and the warmth of being buried inside his beloved. His elegant fingers ghost down Orlando’s abdomen, leaving goosebumps in their wake as he trails down to her heat. Her moans, stifled and breathy, flood his mind with a covetous desire that starts to overpower his sanguine hunger. His thumb circles the sensitive bud of her clit, two fingers dipping into her slick entrance and pumping rhythmic and slow. Arousal, heavy and perfumed in Orlando’s blood, blooms on Astarion’s tongue. Gently, her hips grind back into him, the movement against his sensitive cock making him gasp into her. 

Carefully, Astarion releases Orlando’s neck, hunger satiated for the moment. But his ache for her, for her taste, is not yet satisfied. Gently, his tongue grazes the two little wounds he’s left behind on the Tiefling’s neck before slowly rocking his hips in tandem with hers. He luxuriates in the soft moans, the teeny keens that escape Orlando’s lips when he presses into her. The bed beneath them creaks ever so slightly but holds together well when Astarion picks up his pace. 

“I suppose your construction skills have improved,” he somewhat breathlessly manages, the corners of his lips curling up into a smirk. Orlando merely gives a strained chuckle, though her rosy face brightens, and she flashes a smile that rivals the light of the sun. Sun be damned, Astarion thinks. He has all the brightness he needs right here, in his arms. 

Astarion’s legs begin to quiver as Orlando wraps hers tighter around his hips, pulling him into her as if trying to merge their bodies into one. He is close, so very close, his core tight and aching. When he looks down, Orlando has her eyes squeezed shut, face flushed and skin hot to the touch. She must sense him staring, for the Tiefling cracks an eye open and smiles softly.          

“Tell me what you need, love,” she whispers, reaching a hand up to caress Astarion’s cheek. 

“Just this,” he returns, leaning down to capture her lips. Orlando smashes her lips against his, swallowing his hungry groans as he releases. Her walls pulse around him, drawing from him everything he has, everything she needs. 

“Astarion,” she breathes as she comes undone beneath him, his name an incantation. And hers an invocation on his lips as he fills her. As they settle, weary and joyously foggy-brained, Astarion sears kiss after kiss to Orlando’s lips. 

“I love you, my darling star,” she whispers to him.

“And I, you,” he returns, folding into her embrace, holding one another tight and near. Close is not close enough, but for now, it will have to do. Outside, night envelopes their little cottage, cradling it safe in shadow and starlight. With the distant sounds of the city competing with the rush of the nearby ocean, Astarion could believe that their new home exists in a world all its own. It still feels so terribly strange to call this cottage their home. His home. His first real home in gods-know how long.

Astarion mulls over this evening of firsts. First days spent in this cottage. First time breaking in their new bed. The first bed they’ve ever owned together. And the first whispers of promise, of tomorrow, of the future. 

With Orlando’s velvet lips feathering gentle kisses along his neck, Astarion’s mind wanders back to that fateful night they snuck away together. It still lingers in his thoughts, an anxious, somewhat mortifying memory.  

Orlando’s rejection of him that night had stung. Astarion was rarely rejected. It had happened a couple times when he’d been on the hunt for his master. Nothing his ego couldn’t recover from. However, any rejection he received would send fear shooting through his veins. Rejection meant punishment. Crawling back to Cazador empty handed meant days spent in isolation. Or worse… Astarion would then have to scramble to find someone a little less discerning (and usually a fair bit more inebriated). Orlando’s rejection felt different, though. More personal, at first; until he learned why she had rejected him.

Orlando, in the present, senses Astarion’s thoughts turn to darkness again. She pauses her ministrations, pulling back to meet his distant gaze. 

“Dear love,” she whispers, smoothing her thumb along the angle of his cheekbone, hazel irises suffused with affection, “What brings distress to your heart?” 

Astarion gazes up at her, small strands of dark hair plastered to her forehead and eyes glimmering in the warm glow of the fire in the hearth. He smooths back her hair, hand lingering for a moment on her cheek. Orlando looks at him the same way she’s always looked at him: without an ounce of hostility. With no expectation or silent deception. Only with deep adoration, curiosity, and endless patience.

“Do you remember our first time together?” Astarion utters, cupping Orlando’s face. 

“Yes,” she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss into his palm, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment, “It’s kind of hard to forget.” 

Astarion chuckles, recalling the first time they actually slept together, after a night spent drinking cheap wine and reveling with the Tiefling refugees. That had been a heady, passionate, and altogether lovely night, but that’s not what he had been referring to. 

“No, our first-first time together. In the clearing before we reached the goblins. Not after the Tiefling party,” Astarion clarifies. Orlando smiles knowingly at him.

“That’s what I meant,” she returns, a sheepish blush dusting her cheeks, “What about it?” 

Astarion opens his mind to her, feeling her gentle presence glide into his thoughts. He shows Orlando as he remembers her: shivering in the middle of that clearing, body bathed in silver moonlight. An unknown threat. Someone he thought might betray him at her first opportunity. How wrong he had been.

***

Astarion had been skulking in the shadows, rehearsing how he would utterly beguile and woo this stranger. This Tiefling who had sprung from waves and brine. 

He had emerged from the darkness, smirking devilishly, a charming simulacrum of the man he thought Orlando would want. He could smell her adrenaline, the thrill of excitement coursing through her veins. He was starving. One taste of her blood was all he had needed to crave it like the drug it was. Not just her blood, but the blood of beings higher up on the food chain than rats and bears and things of that ilk. 

Her smile had been tender, a softness reaching her eyes that Astarion had been convinced was a ruse, not realizing how genuine it truly was. But there had also been something akin to fear in her gaze when he finally closed the distance between them. Something that hadn’t been there when he’d sunk his teeth into her neck, just days before. To comfort her, he had whispered honeyed promises, things he knew people liked to hear before they made love. Although, he wouldn’t have called what they had been about to do “making love.” It would have been sex for the sake of lust, for the sake of fulfilling a basic need. Fucking because they could have died any day then, and who could have known when that day might’ve come? 

Orlando had kissed him, hard and deep, her breath becoming his, and his, hers. In the starlight, she had looked at him with curious eyes, with wonderment. She was always searching, learning, and trying to read people. It had infuriated him at the time, knowing that she was trying to figure him out. As if he were some sort of puzzle or curious artifact. His irritation was broken mere seconds later. 

“Is your neck an okay place for me to touch?” he remembers her questioning after a silent moment. Astarion had been taken aback, not sure he’d ever been asked that before. Orlando’s recognition of the sensitivity that area might hold for a victim of the bite took him by surprise. Granted, she had also been one of the few of his bedmates coming in already knowing of his affliction. Still, Astarion had found himself lost for words for once.

“Y-yes,” he had managed to sputter after what felt like an eternity. Orlando had merely nodded at him, beaming softly, before laying tender kiss after tender kiss up his neck, taking special care when she reached the two little pinpoint scars on his right side. Astarion had found himself enjoying her tenderness. Something inside him threatened to shatter, but he had kept himself composed on the surface. Inside, he had been reeling.

That had been the first time that night Astarion started to question what he was doing. He had only planned to seduce the Tiefling as nothing more than a guarantee of his safety. She would fall for him, he wouldn’t fall for her, but he would solidify a place of trust in Orlando’s life. But a number of things would go awry that night and soon his plan would be cast to the wayside. 

Things had gone well for a little while after that. Orlando eased into the moment, the opportunity. She had even playfully offered her neck, knowing Astarion must have needed to feed. But as the night drew on, Astarion started to feel her slipping away from him, her spirit hanging somewhere in the ether around them, no longer inhabiting the limbs that had been entangled with his. 

Orlando’s heart had been hammering against his chest, hands trembling and breath catching in her throat. Her skin had been cold, goosebumps prickling along her arms, and Astarion could do nothing to warm her, having no body heat of his own. Her reaction had been familiar, familiar because it was the same way he felt with most of his bedmates. At the time, he had felt something in him recoil, this kindred sensation stirring up a quagmire of guilt in his heart. When Astarion pulled back from her neck, Orlando had tears in her eyes. Reflected in her shimmering gaze, he saw his own spirit, broken and weary, just as hers was.

“I’m sorry,” she had whispered, tears streaking down her cheeks. When he reached to wipe them away, he found himself hesitating, as if in fear of scalding himself with starlight.

“I’m not ready for this,” she had sobbed, burying her face in her hands. 

“I-“ he tried, but found his words gumming up his throat. All he could do was stare as Orlando wept, tremors of sorrow descending through her body, reverberating through Astarion’s.

Ashamed, the vampire spawn had cast his gaze to the ground, kneeling before the Tiefling at enough of a distance to hopefully make her feel secure, but not alone.

“Here,” he had offered a handkerchief to her, helping her come to a seated position. Orlando dabbed at her eyes with the kerchief, wiped her nose, and took a deep breath. Her face had been puffy from crying and her eyes bloodshot. 

“I’ve ruined your evening,” she had whimpered, dark brows furrowed. Astarion frowned, a surge of something protective fueling his annoyance at this apology.

“Don’t apologize,” he had spit, not wanting her to see the recognition, the familiarity he had with how she was feeling. He couldn’t have begun to guess as to why she had reacted in such a way. Later, he would find out about Orlando’s lack of experience. The pressure Orlando had to “remain pure” for some hideous, eldritch ritual that would bind her to the Fathomless that helped create her. How she was constantly pushed to the limit to achieve some twisted prophecy. How her body was going to be used as a conduit, a puppet for a being that didn’t care what she wanted or how she felt. How the guilt and shame of living a life for herself grew and grew over the years.

“I wasn’t allowed pleasure until I found success,” she had said to him several days later, when the awkwardness began to dissipate and they found a private moment to chat, “My body was never meant to be my own. It was always a tool for catapulting my family into the favor of a being that would dispose of us as soon as is no longer had use of us.”

As she had explained this to Astarion, her eyes seemed to gaze into a past that was swiftly catching up with her.

“I was a dowry, a sacrifice made to appease the Abyss,” she went on, “The Abyss was to be my only embrace. Well, I ruined that with Gortash.” She chuckles ruefully at this, “Felt a bit like stealing a piece of myself back. Enver was always really good at making me feel- like me. Like I belonged to me, and not anyone else. Still doesn’t make intimacy any easier, though.”  

She had squeezed Astarion’s hand gently, a tiny grin tugging at the corners of her lips, “If you’re still interested, maybe we can try again.” 

And when they finally did, it was glorious. Orlando’s brightness was unmatched, with the exception of Astarion’s in that moment. With her, he experienced a tenderness, a softness so deeply unfamiliar to him over these last two centuries. Every subsequent time they slept together, he expected the rug to be pulled from underneath him. For the other shoe to drop and for Orlando to suddenly flip on him, a secret violence unleashing itself on Astarion. But it never did, and this almost terrified him even more. Instead, Orlando was sweet, she was kind, she was patient. She understood him, and he, her. After that, the rest was history.  

***

In the present, Orlando closes her eyes, lips still pressed to Astarion’s open hand. Tears flood the lines in his palm, but still, Orlando smiles.

“You are more than deserving of gentility, of softness, my love,” she whispers to him, hazel irises suffusing with affection, “Always and forever.”

It’s taken a long time for Astarion to accept this, to really believe that he is deserving of what Orlando, Karlach, Wyll, and all their friends say he is deserving of. Slowly, but surely, he is realizing that he is allowed to want, to need, to be gentle with himself. Others are allowed to be gentle with him.

“I never meant to hurt you that night,” Astarion admits, drawing Orlando down to pepper kisses against the corners of her lips, “I was a selfish fool.” He chuckles sardonically, glancing away as he is once again filled with guilt.

“Don’t take all the credit,” Orlando scoffs with a slight raise of a dark brow, “I made my own choices that night. Had my own motivations.”

She pauses, gaze searching.

“Here,” she murmurs, intertwining their fingers, “Let me show you. It might be easier.”

Now, it’s Astarion’s turn to see this same night from her eyes. He lets Orlando guide his mind, slipping into her head, nestling in the folds of her brain. Slowly, a scene unfolds before Astarion’s eyes and it’s as if he has been transported back to the early days of their adventuring. The visions Orlando gives him are so much more visceral than any he is able to show her. They feel less like memories and more like Astarion is actually inhabiting Orlando’s body for a moment. He braces himself for the overwhelming flood.

***

Orlando’s vision starts a little before meeting Astarion in the clearing. The Tiefling navigates through tangles of bramble and thick curtains of willow branches. There is an electric thrill in her veins, one Astarion has tasted countless times before. There is also an innocent excitement fluttering in her heart. Their flirtations over these last several weeks have finally culminated into something, and not just a passing fancy. Witticisms slung back and forth, teasing comments, and playful snark have not just been for, well- naught. There is an attraction there, on both sides, and it is not just some illusion or wistful hope on Orlando’s part. Her delight at this realization fills this vision with a rosy glee.

And then that joy is lost. Snuffed out by a slinking anxiety that slithers through Orlando’s thoughts. Astarion is everything she thinks he is: handsome, suave, mysterious, witty, biting (in every sense of the word), and-

A stranger, a halting fear whispers. Orlando’s heart skips a beat, and she pauses in the shade of a towering tree. Her hand reaches out towards the trunk, bark rough under her fingertips as she steadies herself.

Astarion is a stranger. A beautiful, interesting stranger. A growing confusion trickles into the Tiefling’s heart. Orlando would be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t been attracted to the Elf from the moment she set eyes on him. But she would also be lying to herself if she didn’t admit she was unsettled by Astarion, by his unknown motivations. What were his intentions for her? Will he sleep with her and then cast her to the wayside afterwards? Does he want something from her? Is this a tactic? Astarion strikes her as someone who is quite calculating about the relationships he forms. If there is something he can get from someone, then he is likely to cozy up to them.

Much like someone else you know, a thought interjects. Orlando sighs, the reminder of Enver sparking a little pinpoint of pain behind her eye. Not that Enver ever did anything like that to her, but she’s watched him throughout the years build relationships with others purely to gain and never for anything beyond that. If that is what Astarion is doing to her, well-

Orlando pushes the thought away, turning her attention back to the vampire spawn waiting for her. She’s going to be late if she dilly-dallies any further; but she can’t shake the feeling that perhaps she is being used somehow. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe she should just turn around and go back to her tent and forget she ever entertained the idea of meeting a vampire spawn in an isolated clearing well past midnight. She really doesn’t know Astarion very well and this seems like a good way to end up dead.

But you could die any day now, anyway, Orlando reminds herself as she is about to turn around and head back, This thing in your brain could consume you entirely. And then you would die alone. Lonely and isolated. Pure, just like they want.  

Contempt rises in Orlando, hatred burning with an incandescent radiance in her chest. It seems to fill her lungs with smoke, and for a moment, she is lost in the anger. But Orlando recenters herself, snuffs out her fury towards her real father, towards the devil that called himself her father, and towards her stolen youth with a deep breath. The past is long gone now. Astarion is waiting for her. Some other future that she can make her own is waiting for her. There is an odd sort of freedom that comes with the insertion of the tadpole: a realization that Orlando is free of the ties that bound her to the iron-handed patriarchs of her childhood and to the Fathomless that has claimed her from the moment she was conceived. She can do what she wants for the remainder of the time she has left, until she becomes an Illithid. And why waste it worrying about tyrants that have no hold over her anymore? Why not spend it in the embrace of a handsome, curious Elf with hair like starlight and eyes the color of polished garnets?

A swell of confidence, a new resolve surges through Orlando. By the gods, she’s going to enjoy her night with Astarion. His intentions be damned. Her own fear be damned. Who knows how much longer they have left? Might as well make the most of it. With a boldness Orlando didn’t even realize she was capable of, she traipses through the brush and finds herself standing in the middle of a clearing lit by blue moonlight.

Orlando’s eyes are drawn to the opposite side of the clearing, at a figure cloaked in darkness. There is something slightly ominous about Astarion revealing himself to her, skulking in the shadows, emerging from the foliage. Orlando’s tremors of excitement, of hesitation, shiver through her body and make her limbs feel cold. He is an unknown threat to her, someone who could betray her at the drop of a hat. But she is also terribly curious about Astarion, watching with fascination as starlight casts strange shadows in his crimson gaze.

The vampire spawn advances, he whispers his saccharine promises to her, and Orlando knows they are false. Orlando knows in her heart-of-hearts that the Elf is merely saying everything he thinks she wants to hear. And still, she finds herself drawn to him, desperate for his touch, desperate to feel like she is alive. Like she is not a ticking time bomb for some dark, eldritch power. Like she is not on death’s door, transformation into an Illithid imminent. Orlando pours her will to live, powerful and bright, into every searing kiss, every gentle caress that night.

Even if Astarion is using her, she is going to enjoy this time and make sure he enjoys it, too. With her clothes scattered on the forest floor, Orlando lets Astarion lift her into his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist and curls her tail around his leg. His lips taste of iron and he smells of bergamot and brandy. There is a faint scent of undeath lingering underneath, but it is hardly noticeable. With her back pressed against the trunk of a tree and her fingers tangled in Astarion’s snowy curls, Orlando allows herself to get lost in the vampire spawn.

When she pulls back for air, her gaze darts down to the two little scars on his neck. They look ravaged, the edges feathered and rough. Cazador was not gentle with him, there was no ceremony to Astarion’s turning. Orlando feels her heart sink at the thought. She has avoided touching his neck up until this point and wonders if this is an off-limits zone for him.

“Is your neck an okay place for me to touch?” she inquires, meeting Astarion’s gaze. She registers the shock in his eyes, though his face remains as cool as ever.

“Y-yes,” he almost sputters and Orlando realizes she has hit a nerve. She wonders if anyone has ever asked him that. If consent has ever been something Astarion has been asked about. Soon, Orlando will learn why she senses a kindred spirit in Astarion (though their reasons are vastly different), but for now, she only has a growing sense that they are each just as unfamiliar with intimacy as the other.

Orlando lays gentle kisses against Astarion’s neck, taking special care over his scars. His tiny huffs of approval and satisfied groans indicate to Orlando that he is enjoying her motions. There is a brief moment where Orlando feels the veil lift, where it feels like she and Astarion are raw and exposed to one another, and not just two strangers having a tryst out of fear they’ll both be dead in a few days. Astarion’s elegant fingers drag softly down the ridges and scales along Orlando’s spine, and he lets out a sigh that sounds very close to one of relief. Orlando buries herself in Astarion’s scent, his embrace, and lets the world fall away for a while.

Both in the name of equality and because she knows the vampire must be hungry, Orlando eventually offers her neck to him when she is done attending to his. Playfully, she pushes Astarion onto the leaf-dappled earth, garnering a smirk from the Elf.

“Cheeky thing,” he purrs, which draws heat to Orlando’s cheeks. Not so secretly, she enjoys Astarion’s teasing. Deftly, he flips her over, laying her against the grass and brushing aside her dark hair to expose her neck. A shiver of excitement runs through her body as she anticipates his bite.

Sharp canines sink into Orlando’s neck, pinpricks of ice flooding the Tiefling with an odd, chilly warmth. She tenses, relaxes, looks up at the stars streaking across the night sky in coruscating kaleidoscopes of light and shadow. Heat and exhilaration build and build in Orlando, almost haloing in her vision. She is practically delirious with pleasure. Astarion’s hand is at her hip and suddenly- Suddenly-

Suddenly, Orlando feels terribly naïve. Like she is play-acting. Like she and Astarion are both doing what they think the other one wants without taking a moment to ask themselves what it is they themselves want. The stars above seem to dull in luster and the moon dims. What the hell is she doing? Ruining everything. Ruining everything like she always does. How could she be enjoying herself when there’s so much at stake? How could she be allowing herself this kind of pleasure when she has so much she should be doing? She’s lost her connection with her patron, lost her connection with her family. There’s a tadpole swimming around in her brain and she hasn’t the foggiest what to do about it. She wilts in Astarion’s embrace, excitement deflating as she realizes she has no idea what she’s doing.

What about Enver? a thought ricochets through her mind. She knows the answer to this already. Enver has never been bothered in the past. They have each led separate lives at various times. And always, they come back to one another. She knows she is grasping at something to be anxious about. Something she can control in a terrible situation that is completely out of her control. Enver is not really what concerns her.

“You are meant for greater things, Orlando,” someone’s voice echoes in her mind, and she can’t tell if it’s her father’s or Raphael’s. Get back to your studies. Get back to your work. Get back to becoming everything you are supposed to be. Don’t waste time on pointless things. Pleasure and love are things you can have when you achieve your greatness. They will come easy to you then. Work harder. Be stronger.

Stop it, Orlando’s thoughts whimper, Stop please! Just let me- Let me enjoy this, please.

But her pleas to her own mind go unheard, as they always have. She loses herself in reprimands of the past, reprimands of others that scream at her in her own voice. You are to remain pure. You are to remain unsullied. You are wasting time and energy and potential. Guilt, putrid and acidic, drips down her ribs and seems to coat her insides with a viscous vitriol that threatens to dissolve her from the inside out. Orlando wants to scream as her mind is eclipsed with anxiety. 

Embarrassment releases in hot tears that stream down Orlando’s face. She hadn’t meant to ruin Astarion’s evening. As a child, it had been drilled into her head that she must remain pure. She must remain pure for the Abyss, for the Abyss will be her only embrace. She has already ruined this purity with Enver, who has loved her since her youth. Already ruined it with the few other small but meaningful relationships she’s had over the years. How can she now sully it again with a stranger? How can she be wasting her time, her energy, on frivolity when she should be working to remedy her infection? When she should be working her way back to the Abyss?

These thoughts are intrusions, intrusions she wishes would silence themselves forever. She had been having a wonderful time. A lovely time, in fact; until, as usual, she overthought the moment to death. She is horribly, horribly mortified. But Astarion is surprisingly gentle with her, giving her space, offering her a handkerchief, letting her cry. She’ll explain everything to him in a few days, but for now, they sit silently in one another’s company and watch the stars blink in and out of existence until the sun starts to creep over the horizon.  

***

In the present, Orlando pulls Astarion and herself out of this painful vision. They are both breathless, room swimming into view and steadying once they get their bearings again. The sky outside is beginning to lighten with dawn. Soon, the curtains will need to be drawn, but for now, Orlando lays her head on Astarion’s chest and lets her eyelids flutter shut.

“Thank you for being gentle with my heart,” she whispers with the last of her tears. Astarion feels tears of his own spring to his eyes, burning and long-awaited.

“You make it surprisingly easy,” he laughs, though his voice is trembling. With their fingers still intertwined, Orlando gives his hand a tight squeeze. Astarion softly lays a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her honey and orange blossom soap.

“Thank you for being gentle with mine,” he murmurs. They lay in silence for a long while, listening to the world around them waking with the dawn. After a bit, Orlando draws the curtains shut before joining Astarion at the dining table for tea. As the kettle comes to a boil, Astarion watches fondly as Orlando moves about the kitchen. If you had asked Astarion a year and a half ago where he thought he would be, a little cottage on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate with the love of his life would not have even been a thought in his head. But here they are, guiding one another on a long journey of self-discovery. Of self-acceptance. Hand-in-hand, Orlando and Astarion are slowly teaching each other to live. Life is just beginning for them, and he is grateful for this.

A/N: Oh boy, this chapter sort of got away from me. I didn't set out with the intention of writing a ton of backstory for Orlando, but that's what this ended up being. It was also a little cathartic for me. As someone who constantly feels the need to be perfect, to always be achieving something, who pushes enjoyment to the backburner often, I apparently really needed to write this. But enough about me! Thank you for reading!

I want to explore this flashback significantly more when I actually manage to sit down and write the prequel to this fic, Dark Star. I didn’t really intend to write Mirror before I wrote Dark Star, but it’s oddly helping me develop what I actually want to write in Dark Star. Which I know is kind of wonky and will mean there’s a lot of things that won’t make sense in this right now, but that’s apparently how my brain wants to do things right now. Once I finish this, I think I’ll have a better idea of how to approach Dark Star. Thanks for bearing with me :)

Sorry for the delay in responding to comments on this fic (and in others)! I promise I will get to them soon. Life has been a bit hectic and it's only been recently that I've been able to sit down and write. I hope you are all doing well! Lots of love <3

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story One: Vessel

Disclaimer: Post-Game Spoilers!!!!!!

Next Story

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for Eventual Smut

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Summary: With Baldur's Gate saved and Cazador gone, Astarion and his beloved work to try to carve out a life for themselves. But freedom does not come without its complications and challenges.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, Fluff, Angst, Comfort, Grief, Mentions of Character Death, Depression, Telepathic Bonds, Kisses, Hugs, Karlach hugs and soft kisses from Wyll, Past Tav x Gortash, Ceremonies, Healing from Trauma

Read here in this post or over on my AO3

The streets of Baldur’s Gate are full of mirth, construction paused so that its citizens might celebrate the very fact that there is a city left to rebuild. They dress in their finest, flooding the streets with celebratory joy. Alleyways strewn with rubble are filled with dancing revelers. The air, thick with settling dust, is light with warbling song. And the night sky brightens with shimmering fireworks, sparks fizzling down into the harbor. Vendors sell delicious treats and memorabilia to remember the day Baldur’s Gate was freed from the Absolute. While the city proper is alive with good cheer, anticipation thrums through Wyrm’s Rock as people try to squeeze into the audience chamber, eager to catch a glimpse of the famed Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. They all murmur to one another, whispering rumor and speculation, peering excitedly at the motley crew of adventurers standing before the throne.

“I heard the Duke’s son made a pact with a devil and that’s why he has those horns now.”

“They look quite fetching on him, don’t you think?”

“Is it true that one of the Tieflings has got an engine for a heart?”

“Oooo, bet she’d keep me nice and toasty at night.”

“That pale elf is rather handsome, don’t you think? Mischievous looking, too. Bet he’s a boatload of trouble.”

“I’ve never seen a Tiefling with webbed ears before.”

“Rumor has it that she and Gortash were quite the item.” 

Meanwhile, Astarion fidgets restlessly where he stands, a dour expression on his face. He does his best to entertain himself by tuning in to all the various theories being slung back and forth throughout the hall. There’s plenty of rumor, true or otherwise, to keep him distracted from the empty feeling that has pervaded him since he awoke this afternoon. As the sun sank beyond the glittering waters of the Sword Coast, Astarion found the elation of the last several weeks gradually emptying from him, like a slow leak in a cracked bottle. Has it really only been a little over a tenday since the defeat of the Netherbrain? Battling the Absolute feels like a lifetime ago, and yet, the deep exhaustion makes it seem as if Astarion and his companions fought only this morning. His sore muscles and creaky bones need months to heal. And his foggy thoughts, even longer. He feels weary already from this evening and nothing has even happened yet. It’s nice to be honored, he supposes, but it also seems, perhaps, a bit too much, a bit too soon. He’s hardly had a moment to breathe.

A gentle caress draws him briefly from his swirling thoughts. Orlando’s lips feather kisses along his cheekbones, sending a gaggle of young men and women into a bit of an uproar near the front of the crowd. She chuckles at their nonsense before cupping Astarion’s face in one hand and smoothing her thumb over his cheek. He leans into her caress, letting his eyelids flutter shut. 

“You look lovely, my darling,” she whispers in Astarion’s ear, the tickle of her breath sending delightful shivers up his spine. The outfit he sports is one Figaro tailored just for him: a royal blue tailcoat with feathered, gold embroidery and a white undershirt with a frilled high collar. His knee high boots are made of black leather and have the slightest kitten heel. Orlando helped him pick the shoes, which are both comfortable and stylish, perfectly showing off his shapely calves. 

Astarion casts a coy look at her, crimson eyes dragging up the length of her body. Orlando looks bewitching in her black and gold robes, swirling tentacles embroidered along her collar and sleeves. She is every bit a formidable warlock and sorcerer, enigmatic and not to be trifled with. And yet, her gentility shines through even her most severe apparel. Her dark hair, long now from many months of journeying without a haircut, cascades down her back in ringlets and waves. Astarion delicately tucks a loose strand behind her webbed ears. Her bioluminescent spots over her eyelids and on the shells of her ears twinkle in delight. 

“And you, my dear, look ravishing,” he purrs, savoring the blush that dusts her cheeks. Before their flirtations can go much further, the din of the crowd softens as the grand doors are flung wide once again. Counsellor Florrick and Grand Duke Ravenguard make their way to the dais, taking their places aside the ragtag team of adventurers who somehow managed to save Faerûn from the doom of the Absolute. 

Wyrm’s Rock lulls to a hush, silenced by a simple flick of the wrist from Counsellor Florrick. Astarion feels the eyes of hundreds fall upon him, upon his companions, and a sudden flutter of anxiety tickles his lungs. He shifts uncomfortably, hardly one to stand on ceremony. He cannot recall the last time he addressed a crowd as large as this. Back in his years as a magistrate, public speaking was not unfamiliar to him. But in the two-hundred years since, it has become nearly as foreign to him as the sun on his skin. 

“Don’t worry, my love,” Orlando had reassured him earlier that evening, “Wyll’s in charge of the speeches today.”

Astarion hopes this remains true. It was already hassle enough to request this gods-forsaken ceremony be held at night, rather than in the morning like it had initially been suggested. He thinks of the hullabaloo that would ensue were he to open his mouth and flash the sharpened canines housed within. He can’t even begin to fathom the uproar that might occur were it to be discovered that a vampire spawn is one of the Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Though, stranger things have happened, he supposes. Flying brains wasn’t exactly on his docket for this year. And neither was the adoring woman beside him, flashing a loving look his way just as the festivities officially begin.

The voice of Ulder Ravenguard drones in the background. Astarion is far too focused on looking poised to pay any attention to what the man is going on about. Praise, no doubt. Camaraderie and pride, blowing smoke, yadda yadda. It’s all well and good, but there’s a million other things Astarion would rather be doing with his freedom than sitting through some long winded speeches. The after party promises to be far more entertaining than the ceremony itself. Karlach has challenged everyone to a dance off, which Astarion would gladly pay to see (though he’s not sure he wants to participate). And the after-after party with Orlando promises to be a delight, as always. He catches her eye once again, smirking devilishly at the coquettish beam that plays on her lips. His mood brightens for a little bit after this small exchange.

As the evening wears on, however, the chilly emptiness begins to creep in again. An inexplicable untethered feeling; like he’s adrift in the ocean, unmoored and without direction. Astarion and his companions each gain a crimson sash, heavy with medals of honor and valor. Ordinarily, Astarion might scoff at something so- heroic. But in the wake of the vacuum forming in his chest, he feels a swell of pride when Florrick greets him with a smile, lowers the sash over his head, and moves aside to adorn Orlando with one of her very own. The crowd erupts into cheers, applause, the hall overflowing with joy, relief, elation. Astarion feels their energy burst within him, pushing aside the icy chill in his heart, chest filling with an overwhelming sense of gratification. 

Until anxiety rears its head once again, sudden and without explanation; and all excitement peters out, a flickering candle snuffed out by rain. A thousand eyes on him. Eyes in the shadows. Lurking. But he cannot tell if it is something real, a malignancy out to get him, or if what lingers in the darkness are the ghosts of his past. He searches the faces in the crowd for one in particular, but he cannot find the narrow face of his master, the hateful glowering gaze. And why would he?

Dead and gone, he reminds himself, I killed him, myself. I watched him die.

Relief has not found Astarion, yet. He cannot help but look over his shoulder when he travels through empty alleyways. He cannot help but cower in the shadows at the slightest hint of sunlight. He winces at the sharp calls of hawkers in the market, as if their cries are admonishments for his failure and not promises of goods. His back prickles, tiny needles stabbing his scarred skin, the memory of a blade carving his flesh still poignant in his nerves. There is blood in his mouth, rat fur trapped in his teeth, the horrible crunch of bone when he bites down. Red eyes in the dark, eyes that aren’t there, but seem to leer at him from ages long gone. He has not dared venture anywhere near Cazador’s Palace, now abandoned, but still no less frightening. 

When will it end, this feeling of paranoia? Shouldn’t it be gone by now? Shouldn’t Astarion be feeling the full rapture of his freedom? The full force of ecstasy that comes with the unshackling of his bindings? Shouldn’t he be feeling- happy? And not whatever this hideous, soul-sucking vacancy is? 

Beside him, Orlando’s breath hitches in her throat. Astarion can feel that same lacuna in her, that same draining emptiness. Behind her soft smile is a deep sorrow, an immense exhaustion Astarion, himself, is wholly familiar with. Her eyes reflect a weariness etched permanently into her soul. He nudges her gently with his elbow while the crowd is distracted by Wyll’s rousing speech. They’re seated now, in one of the pews near the front. The Tiefling smiles weakly at him, intertwining their fingers when he slips his hand into hers.

“What troubles you, darling?” Astarion whispers, nudging at her thoughts with his own. They are forever bound, a telepathic link born not of the tadpole, but of Orlando’s eldritch heritage, a gift from her most generous patron. Astarion cannot use it very well and she is still learning, one toddling step at a time. But they each can use it well enough to pass secrets back and forth, or gossip from across the room at parties and what not. However, sharing memories seems to come easy to them both.

Orlando lets him in. The familiar exhaustion of months on the road is first to greet Astarion. He knows that feeling all too well. The constant walking. Gods, the endless walking and jumping and climbing. If he never has to hike again, he could die a happy vampire. Roughing it in tents, trying to find comfort in thin sleeping rolls, and bathing in whatever water they could find has sapped him of his vigor. It has been an absolute godsend to be able to sleep in a comfortable bed and bathe in an actual bath tub, even if it is at the Elfsong Tavern for now.

Deeper than this surface-level exhaustion, however, is a pervading sense of weariness in Orlando’s soul. The pain of her childhood: searing sunlight, brackish water, coarse salt, and jagged rocks. Harsh words thrown at her by a tyrant father, fleeing, and wondering if she’ll ever be safe. A brief reprieve, immense love, shared laughter with her mother and brother, the bustling harbors of Baldur’s Gate, the smooth ocean against her scales, freedom and independence. Confusion, uncertainty. And then darkness: trapped in a dank basement, confined to the shadows, lost and confused, separated from her loved ones, now the property of a devil. This all merges and congeals with the pain of loss throughout these last several months. Betrayal, anguish, ruin. Innocent lives lost, and for what? Tadpoles and brains and undead armies. The death of her father, a complicated and raw recollection. The severing of her tie to his despotic patron. Joyously reuniting with her own, M’aheth, Daughter of the Cosmic Sea. Being named Twin Star, honorary daughter. The pride that comes with such a title. 

Orlando’s thoughts lift for a moment, recalling her relief when she and her mother and brother finally became free of their ancestral ties. But something Wyll says sucks her right back down into wallowing.

“Gone are the tyrannical days of Enver Gortash,” Astarion hears Wyll’s voice call out to the crowd. A soft murmur ripples through the room, some voices resounding in approval, others in staunch disappointment. That name is a complicated one amongst the citizens of the Sword Coast. For Orlando, it sparks an aching sorrow, a bereavement riddled with anger and shame. The memory of Gortash lingers strong in her mind, mournful and rife with confusion. Astarion feels this pain on the fringes of all her thoughts. Images of Enver as he was, youthful and mischievous, sweet and intelligent, gifting Orlando a tiny, mechanical figurine of a mermaid, flit before Astarion’s eyes. These images do not compute with the ones that follow: Enver lording over Baldur’s Gate, cool and uncaring gaze sweeping over enslaved Gondians, dead citizens, and pools upon pools of writhing tadpoles. Orlando’s mind struggles to contend with the sickening squelch of the metaphorical knife she plunged into the lordling’s back, an eternal curse falling from her lips out of anguish, a final kiss in his dying breath. Laying motionless at his side, for an engulfing eternity, staring vacantly into an abyss she almost couldn’t return from. 

This abyss enshrouds Astarion’s vision for a moment. Suddenly, Cazador blips into Orlando’s thoughts, and it’s then that Astarion realizes the focus has shifted to his mind. The agony of stolen youth pummels him, sunlight bright and warm on his skin, a forgotten memory. Blank eyes gazing at him in a mirror, eyes he cannot remember the color of. Arrogance, pride, power in his early years as a magistrate. And then pain, body broken and mind fuzzy as he’s beaten senseless. Fear as he realizes he is going to die, and he is going to die alone, in some stinking back alley of Baldur’s Gate. Fear turns to hope- a figure emerging from the shadows, austere, angular face swimming into view, promising he can save Astarion. Promising an end to his suffering.

Icicles in his neck, pinpoints of pain. And then emptiness. Dirt, loam, stifling and cold. His fingernails bleed from how hard he is scratching the inside of- dear gods, this is a coffin. Screaming, wailing for someone to help, please help, he’s been buried alive. Clawing his way through the earth, the first sweet breath of fresh air, only to retch. Rotten blood burbles in his throat, foams in his mouth. And then darkness, for two-hundred years. Darkness and agony, self-hatred and ruin. 

Orlando squeezes Astarion’s hand, drawing him back to the present. He sucks in a breath, as if he’d been holding it. As if he has any breath to hold. He re-orients himself. Wyrm’s Rock, ceremony, Wyll’s boring speech. Astarion settles, quietly pressing a lingering kiss to Orlando’s temple. He feels her mind almost sigh in relief. The contact settles her thoughts and the desolation seems to wash from her mind in a gentle sweep of comfort. Suddenly, Astarion is bathed with the rosy warmth of adoration. All thoughts of Cazador disintegrate, turning to ash and sifting away. Orlando offers up an image of a house he’s never seen before: built out of cream-colored stone, a lush herb garden skirting the perimeter, smoke rising from the chimney. Astarion feels cozy in this vision, the scent of rosemary filling his nose, lungs blooming with warmth.

“Your home?” he puts forth, limited to simple questions by their infant telepathic link. Perhaps this is her childhood home, the one she spoke so fondly of when it was just her, her mother, and brother. Orlando shakes her head, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Ours,” she corrects, squeezing Astarion’s hand. He ruffles her thoughts with his surprise, his excitement. He wants to ask her more questions: did she buy it already? Is this a house that actually exists or just the idea of one? What does she mean “ours?” But before he can, he feels her thoughts shift. Now, he sees the two of them on the road, packs slung over their shoulders, hand-in-hand as they traipse through a sparsely wooded area. Fresh air, bright and clean in his lungs, and a clear night sky. The world is aglow with moonlight, a silvery band of stars streaking across the heavens. There is a promise of tomorrow in this vision, of possibility. Of adventure. 

“Adventure, with a home to return to,” Orlando posits, a well of joy overflowing in her heart, “Not ready to settle down quite yet.” 

She winks, knowing Astarion is just as restless for adventure as she is. Though having a home to return to would be more than ideal (less hiking that way, more resting). How long has it been since Astarion had somewhere he could call home? Somewhere that wasn’t a dungeon or a jail. How long has it been since he’s been allowed to go where he pleases, when he pleases, how he pleases? They could go anywhere. Excitedly, images of Waterdeep, Chult, Neverwinter, Avernus, even, pop into Astarion’s head. Orlando stifles a chuckle from beside him, beaming brightly at the vampire’s enthusiasm.

Wyll’s speech comes to a close. Duke Ravenguard instructs his son and his companions to rise from their seats so that the citizens might thank them one more time. The audience chamber is filled once again with raucous cheers. Looking around, Astarion sees the faces of his fellow adventurers. His friends . He sees the faces of his fellow Baldurian’s, jubilant and proud. Astarion feels simultaneously overwhelmingly full and painfully empty. Cheers ring in his ears and it's as if all of Baldur’s Gate is pouring itself into him. The world is ahead of him. Life is ahead of him. Freedom. But there is something terrifyingly vacuous about knowing he is free. With both everything and nothing to look forward to. Where do they go from here? Astarion’s veins fill with an icy cold at the thought of having to carve out a life for himself. 

Orlando gestures for Astarion to lean down, crashing her lips to his in a passionate kiss, thawing the anxious chill that had begun to numb his fingers. Astarion pulls her close, caught up in the exuberance of the moment, caught up in the reminder that he is not alone. Karlach, beside herself with excitement, tears in her amber eyes, pulls the little group into a massive, crushing hug. Warmth spreads through his body, fills his limbs with a tingling joy. Wyll squeezes Astarion’s free hand, presses soft kisses to his, Orlando’s, and Karlach’s cheeks. There is uncertainty, and that is the only thing Astarion can, funnily enough, be certain of. But in this moment, he is reminded that he will not be facing his uncertain future alone. 

“Our home,” Astarion repeats to Orlando after a little bit, having to shout over the roaring applause, “Our adventures.” 

“Our future,” she returns, stealing one more kiss before the adventurers are led out of the audience chamber, followed by shouts and cheers. People spill out into the streets, ready to spend the remainder of the night in carefree revelry. Astarion pauses at the threshold, the shining city of Baldur’s Gate ahead, his nearest and dearest companions at his side. 

Deep breath. Release. 

Wyrm’s Rock exhales, and Astarion is free.

A/N: Hello, everyone! I wanted to write a post-game story for my Tav, Orlando (a Sorlock), and Astarion. I've been a little bit all over the place with writing down her story (as in, I can't seem to write it down in any particular order). I have a couple things up on my Tumblr about her and I do plan to write a story that takes place during the events of the game. But for now, I had an itching to write some post game content, so here it is.

Some notes: this occurs post-game with Vampire Spawn Astarion, Orlando and crew managing to stabilize Karlach's heart (which I wish you could actually do in-game), and Wyll managing to rescue his father. Orlando was severed from her Warlock patron with the insertion of the tadpole, but has since reunited with her patron, M'aheth (the baby of another Great One patron called the Cosmic Sea). She comes from a family of Sorlocks that worshipped a cruel Fathomless patron, but Orlando managed to sever her ties with her family and the Fathomless. She and Gortash were trapped in the HOH together and were in an on again/off again relationship for many years. If you have any questions, feel free to ask! I'd be happy to answer. More info to come. I mostly wanted this story to be about her and Astarion adjusting to living a life of freedom. Most of this story will be about Astarion, but I wanted to give a little context for some things mentioned in this chapter.

*Edit (02/09/24): Changed a line about Gortash’s death.

[bakuliwrites]

Ooh I'd love to hear about Dark Star! 👀

I would be delighted to talk about it! Thank you so much for asking!

WIP Ask Game here

So, Dark Star is my BG3 fanfic about my Sorlock Tav, Orlando. More detailed info about her here and Chapter One here. She is a Deep Sea Tiefling who grew up in a family of Warlocks who all worshipped a Fathomless being they simply call The Deep Abyss. Orlando managed to escape her family with her mother and brother, but through a series of events, wound up trapped in the House of Hope as a child, where she met a young Enver Gortash. Some things I'm exploring in Dark Star:

Gortash's backstory and his time in the House of Hope. It is here that Orlando and Gortash begin their romance, which started as a childhood crush and bloomed into more as they aged. I wanted to write a story for a Tav with a history with Gortash, rather than a Durge story (though I do enjoy Durgetash).

I don't have any intention of doing a redemption arc for Gortash, but I do want to show his internal conflict when it comes to pleasing Orlando (she wants him to do the right thing) and providing a stable future for the both of them (which, for Gortash, means making questionable if not morally reprehensible decisions). Their relationship has, over the years, become more toxic, but there is a lot of deep love there, still. (If you're curious, I have a little standalone story about them in their younger years here and some letters exchanged between them here)

Lots of eldritch themes in this. Orlando has her own patron that I came up with (a baby Fathomless she rescued!), but her family has the Deep Abyss. She wants to sever her ties from this particular Fathomless, but is struggling to do so. Similar to Raphael, Orlando has an Ascended form, but it is directly related to the Deep Abyss (I'm going to draw up a design for this at some point haha).

Orlando has her own questline, so depending on which ending you get, she'll end up with Gortash, ruling over Faerûn together. Or she will end up with Astarion and Karlach :) I like poly romances and wish you could romance them both in game! I plan to have a ton of wholesome moments between them throughout each chapter.

And finally, here's a little excerpt that I haven't yet posted :) This fic has WAY more Gortash content than I initially intended. My obsession with that man hit me like a train haha. This occurs right in the beginning of act 3, during Gortash’s coronation. Orlando and Enver haven’t seen each other in a few years, but have been corresponding via letters to one another.

Orlando glides up to the dais, the hem of her white dress like silken snow pooling around her feet. She lays her hand softly over Enver’s, a touch so deeply familiar, it could knock him off his feet. For a moment, the throne room in Wyrm’s Rock is still, as if the very building itself is holding its breath. Enver has half a mind to scoop Orlando into his arms, to lay kiss after long awaited kiss to her lips, to make up for the years they’ve been apart. But in the company of others, tadpoled or otherwise, he opts to merely intertwine their fingers, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze. 

Enver is grateful for her discretion. A grand display of adoration would hardly be appropriate for his coronation ceremony. And he does not yet know where Orlando’s allegiance lies. Will she remain faithful to him? To the plan? Or will she deliberately work against him? With the killing of Ketheric Thorm, he cannot be sure anymore. Orlando is more lethal than she realizes, but that is not why Enver is interested in allying with her. No, it is her determination, her softness that will win the hearts of those in Baldur’s Gate. Enver Gortash, the iron fist of Bane, and Orlando, his gentle wife.

“I thought you dead,” he murmurs to his beloved, allowing himself a moment to rest his forehead against hers, to let his eyes flutter shut while he basks in her calm aura. How long has it been since he has felt this at peace? Her thoughts gently nudge his. 

“Your mind is open to me, Enver,” Orlando whispers in his head, a tender voice in the cacophonous din, “You are fraught with worry. What troubles you?” 

He lets her in, lets her wade past the wrathful, shadowy thoughts that have eclipsed his mind. He is controlled, calculated, and pulled together in front of this gathering of nobles and smarmy politicians. But there is a tiny corner of Enver’s psyche that is reeling, chaotic. Orlando is a reminder of softer days, hours spent idling with one another in the dark corners of the House of Hope. Secret meetings, stolen kisses, furtive glances. 

Yet, she is also a reminder of sorrowful, difficult days. Days of punishment for Enver’s insolence. His disobedience. Days of separation, because a note exchanged between the two of them was discovered, and they were no longer allowed to be alone with one another. Notes that contained plans of escape. Plans for a life lived beyond the confines of the House of Hope. Dreams crushed to dust by the cruelty of a world built on lies and false hope.

“Meet me in my office after the ceremony,” Enver breathes, before pulling away and cloaking himself in bravado once more.

[bakuliwrites]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you so much for tagging me @bardic-inspo!

I tag anyone who wants to participate in this! Always excited to see what you are working on :)

BG3 Spoilers! Okay, this is coming a day late (so I guess it's WIP Thursday haha). But here's a little preview from Mirror, my Tav x Astarion fic (hoping to get some work on this done this weekend). I've opted to make it an Orlando x Astarion fic, that occurs post-game. Heroes of Baldur's Gate, Unascended Astarion, happy Orlando (though grieving the death of Gortash in her own way), Karlach may or may not show up :) Alright, enough chattering. Here's the preview!

“Let me, darling,” he offers before Orlando can stand up, taking over the duty of preparing a nice warm drink for her. Over the days, guilt has been creeping into Astarion’s heart. He thinks back on all the people he’s lured, all the lives he’s ruined, and wonders if he’s doing exactly that to Orlando. There may be no crypt to lure her back to, but a life lived in shadow is a crypt in its own right.  When he meets Orlando’s weary gaze, he’s harkened back to days before tadpoles, nautiloids, and giant brains. He imagines her, sitting in a tavern, all alone. She’s sitting in a dark corner, silently taking everything in. He catches her glancing at the door every so often, shifting anxiously in her chair, waiting for someone. Someone that never shows up. In this daydream, Orlando looks terribly lonely and entirely too welcoming when he catches her eye. If he’d met her before the tadpoles, Astarion would’ve sauntered his way over to her, slid into the nearest chair, and gone to work trying to utterly beguile and bedazzle her.  Only now does he know that she would have likely been waiting for Gortash. And only now does he realize that is, perhaps, an ire he would not have wanted to provoke. But he wouldn’t have known that at the time. He merely would’ve recognized a lonely soul and pounced. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked. She could have denied him. Or gods-forbid, that sniveling arms-dealer-turned-politician could’ve shown up, and Astarion would have been forced to return to his master empty-handed and facing severe punishment. Worse, though, is that it is very possible his charm could have won over Orlando. He pictures the way her eyes would have lit up when he talked to her, the blush dusting her cheeks when his hand brushed hers. He’d have whispered sweet nothings, empty promises into her naive ears. And shared some made-up story that might’ve made Orlando pity him, something to strike a cord in her own sorrow. With his fingers interlaced with hers, Astarion would’ve coaxed her out of that tavern and into his predatory embrace.  On the empty city-streets, he’d have paused under the glow of a street lamp, traced his thumb over the bow of Orlando’s soft lips, and commented on how lovely she looked in the evening light.  “Like the sea come to life,” he’d have cooed, laying his lips featherlight to her wrists. Leaning in, Astarion would steal her breath away with a singular, passionate kiss, sealing the deal. She was all his. Well, not his. Orlando would have belonged to Cazador, but she didn’t yet realize that. Instead, Orlando would be smiling away, giddy and over the moon, ignorant of the imminent danger she was in. 

[bakuliwrites]

Very much enjoying the (very small amount of) modding I've done with the new patch!

[bakuliwrites]

How about 3, 14, and 15 for the Tav asks? 😄

Thank you so much for asking! :D

Tav Ask Game

3. What feats have you picked for them?

So, I haven't picked all of her feats yet, but because she is a Sorlock (with one level in Fighter) I'm planning to do: Alert, Ability Improvement (in Charisma), and War Caster. They'll all lend to her magic casting/warlock build, and Alert is nice because it improves initiative!

14. What was your Tav's life like before they got kidnapped by the Mindflayers?

Orlando lived a pretty nomadic life before she was kidnapped. She is used to being on the run and having to find accommodation where she can. Her childhood was spent fleeing her family with her mother and brother. They hid in Baldur's Gate for a while, where they were safe, until Orlando's mother went missing. Orlando then spent many years held captive in the House of Hope.

When she and Gortash managed to escape, they were constantly in a state of running/hiding from the authorities and trying to make ends meet. Eventually, Orlando left to see if she could hunt down any clues for what happened to her mother and brother. She spent a lot of time out at sea, on pirate ships or cargo ships seeking possible leads for the whereabouts of her family. Occasionally, Gortash would send her some information he picked up through his own channels.

Orlando was on her way back to Baldur's Gate, both to see Gortash again and to follow a lead, when she was kidnapped by the Mindflayers...

15. Is your Tav leaning into their newfound Illithid abilities or rejecting them altogether?

Orlando is hesitant to use her Illithid abilities. On the one hand, she finds them fascinating and useful. But on the other, she's terrified of what it could turn her into. She already has a fear of her own power and feels that she doesn't really understand her own abilities yet. So adding these new Illithid abilities on top of those gives her some pause.

Thank you again for asking! Hope you have a lovely day!

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story Two: Ventricles

Disclaimer: Post-Game Spoilers!!!!!!

Previous Story, Next Story

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for Eventual Smut

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Chapter Summary: After a year of adventuring, Astarion and Orlando are back in Baldur's Gate, excited to begin their newest adventure: home ownership.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, domestic fluff, suggestive conversations, lots of banter, Astarion getting bit in the ass (and not in a sexy way, though that might happen in a future chapter)

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Astarion smooths his hand along the wall, creamy stones cool and uneven under his fingertips. His touch ripples along the seams between each one, bumping gently as he trails along the perimeter of the house. In the darkness, it glows like a lantern, warm light pooling on the grass from the diamond-paned windows. Astarion thinks back to over a year ago when the image of this house had first been presented to him, during the celebration after the defeat of the Netherbrain. At the time, it had seemed like a pipe dream. Neither he nor Orlando had much money to their names, and the thought of settling down seemed almost too good to be true. Unbeknownst to Astarion at the time, this little cottage on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate was a gift to Orlando from her mother, who had received a sizable inheritance from the sale of their ancestral property. Who knew decaying estates with inert portals to the deep sea would be worth so much?

The cottage is perched on a low cliff overlooking an isolated cove, just beyond the city limits. A narrow, winding road leads up from the harbors of Baldur’s Gate and splits into three different paths. The property sits just off the southwestern-most of the three paths, private but only a ten minute walk from the city. Orlando surprised Astarion with the house a few days after the ceremony, once they had recovered from the raucous festivities. However, neither felt ready to settle down just yet. They dumped what few belongings they had with them there and set off on the road, itching for adventure. Though Astarion wonders if it wasn’t adventure they were looking for, but a means to escape the mounting pressure of being named Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. 

On the road, Astarion and Orlando were just two travelers of little to no renown. In the furthest reaches of Faerûn, they could venture forth in quiet anonymity for a while. A smattering of people here and there might have recognized them, but overall, they were left well alone. However, the exhaustion of travel got to them and the decision to settle down, at least for a little while, was made. It was back to Baldur’s Gate, where the hullabaloo had died down and they could walk the streets well-liked, but not fawned over (or sneered at, in the case of the few remaining Absolute supporters). 

As Astarion leisurely paces through the garden of his new abode, bathed in starlight and humming softly to himself, he feels awash with relief. Relief and a bit of apprehension. This will be the first time in over two-hundred years he’ll have a home. A real home. Somewhere he can feel stable and secure, safe and comfortable. And yet, this building does not yet feel like home. Nevermind the lack of furniture or the dusty, cobweb-riddled corners. The house, in all its newness, is a foreign body. A husk, aching to be filled with memory. But it brims with potential. With promise.

As Astarion passes the window that will soon belong to their bedroom, Orlando gives him a small wave, approaching the cloudy glass with some excitement. She struggles for a moment trying to tug at the rusty old deadbolt, but finally manages. With some help from Astarion, she pushes open the casement window, sending up a cloud of dust as the panes swing open.

“Sorry,” she laughs, which swiftly turns into a cough. The house sputters out years worth of abandonment in gray puffs, dousing Astarion and an overgrown rose bush that has certainly seen better days. He and Orlando wave their hands around to dispel the choking motes, scowling until the air clears. 

“Gods, it looks as if I’ve gone crawling in the dirt,” the Elf grouses, dusting off his now grubby shirtfront with the back of his hand. 

“You look like you’ve been crawling in the dirt? What must I look like then?” Orlando exclaims, tugging down the hem of her oversized work shirt to show off the sandy brown fruits of her sweeping labor. 

“Like the Princess of Dust and Cobwebs,” he teases, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. He feels her smile against him, soft lips feathering kisses at the corner of his mouth. When they separate, Orlando wears an impish smirk.

“And are you the Window-Cleaning Prince, come to rescue me from my tower?” she coos, batting her eyelashes in an almost mocking fashion. Astarion rolls his eyes.

“Hardly,” he scoffs, grabbing a cleaning cloth from where it was draped over his shoulder and whipping the air with a sharp crack, “Now close it, so I can clean it,” 

“Yes, sir,” Orlando returns, though her tone does not house a single ounce of actual obedience in it. She merely does as she is asked because she, herself, has work to get back to. Astarion chuckles alongside her as they each return to their cleaning duties. He watches Orlando from the window while he scrubs at glass stained with dirt and rainwater. She’s beaming to herself, happy as a clam as she removes the offending layers of dust from the bedroom hearth. He thinks about her excitement as they made their long journey back to Baldur’s Gate, the elation she felt at finally getting the opportunity to “nest,” as she put it. To make a home for the two of them. 

The two of us, Astarion repeats in his head, a thought that fills him with a quiet, fluttering joy. 

Out loud, they had dreamed of all the empty rooms they would fill with furniture, furniture they would get to pick out together. Astarion, in his imagination, leaned towards a gothic, ornate look with dark wood, crushed velvet, and shades of crimson or merlot. Orlando seemed satisfied with this aesthetic, though she requested the kitchen remain light with its already colorful tile backsplashes and touches of sage green, terracotta, and cream. A bit of a hodge-podge home, perhaps, but uniquely theirs. The time had come to start their interior design, but they needed to build up their savings again. For now, however, they were content with making do with what they had and imagining what could be. 

Astarion finishes up with the windows before returning inside to help Orlando unpack some of the various trinkets and talismans they’ve collected along their travels over the last year. He unwraps a vintage bottle of Elverquisst, gifted to them by Shadowheart when they met up with her on their way to visit Halsin, and stores it in the cellar until such special occasion warrants its consumption. He watches as Orlando carefully positions a crystal figurine in the shape of an octopus on one of the windowsills, a treasure that they may or may not have pilfered from a Goblin camp just outside Daggerford. A Githyanki greatsword hangs over the mantel, Lae’zel’s way of thanking them for helping her people. A sun catcher, either meant to be darkly humorous or perhaps an awkward attempt at consolement, hangs at the kitchen window.

“Who gave this to us?” Astarion questions with the raise of an eyebrow as he pulls the object out of a little velvet bag.

“I don’t know, honestly,” Orlando admits, gazing at the object, perplexed, “It was in our pack after Withers’ get together, with a little note addressed to you.”

He sighs, holding it up in front of his eye and peering through the prismatic crystal. Something about it screams Minsc to him, in which case, the gift is no doubt a clumsy attempt to make Astarion feel better about losing his ability to walk in the sun. He can practically hear Minsc proclaiming that this “magical item” is supposed to capture sunlight, perhaps allowing Astarion to temporarily wander out in the daytime.

“And what good would a suncatcher do for a vampire spawn?” Astarion sneers, testing its weight in his hand, about ready to toss it back into the crate he found it in. 

“You could thrash it around like a flail and whack people with it,” Orlando half-jokingly suggests, mimicking a swinging motion with her hand.

“Could do,” he muses, dragging a fingertip along one of the pointed edges, “It’s rather sharp, actually. Might even do a fair bit of damage.”

Should there ever be a home invasion, if he’s desperate enough, Astarion will snatch it from its resting place in the kitchen and make good use of it.

When all but a few of the crates have been unpacked and the night sky starts to lighten with the first threat of day, Astarion and Orlando adorn each window with thick, light blocking curtains. Satisfied that not a single sliver of light can pierce in or out of the house, they settle in for slumber sometime around dawn. In the heat of the morning, there’s no need for a fire in the hearth. But the discomfort of their thin bedroll, padded only by an ornate rug Wyll sent as a housewarming gift, has the two of them searching for softness and comfort. Weary from a night spent cleaning, Orlando promptly passes out in Astarion’s arms, snoring softly against the crook of his neck. Astarion follows not long after, falling into a deep, dreamless meditation.

Sometime around early afternoon, Astarion senses Orlando’s restlessness. He feels her slip from his grasp, taking special care to rearrange the blankets back over him. Her lips brush against his temple before her warmth is temporarily lost to him. Astarion’s eyelid briefly flutters open to catch a glimpse of the bioluminescent spots on Orlando’s back retreating in the darkness. A while later, he hears the front door open and close, but is far too exhausted to pay it any mind. He dreams of sitting on the porch, enjoying the rushing sound of the waves down below and feeling the gentle prickle of sunlight on his skin. Orlando sits at his side, fingers carding softly through his snowy curls, her lips tasting of sugar and lemon. 

A ruckus awakens Astarion later that evening. He jolts awake, joints aching, left arm asleep, and back ferociously sore. Orlando is nowhere to be found, at least not in the living room. And the terrible racket is only getting louder by the minute.

“Darling?” he calls out, groggily wandering from room to room, cradling his numb left arm. There is a brief moment where Astarion has half a mind to grab the suncatcher-turned-flail from the kitchen window. He and Orlando have just started to settle into this house and he’s not about to let intruders ruin the sanctity they are trying to create. His anxiety is quelled, however, when a moment later, Orlando’s voice calls out to him.

“In here!” she shouts from somewhere at the back of the house. Astarion fumes off to the bedroom, towards the source of the commotion, relieved he won’t have to defend his property, but irritated to have been so rudely awoken. What on earth could Orlando possibly be doing this early (or late, rather, given that it was well past sunset)?

“What in the nine hells-” Astarion begins, fully awake and incensed. However, upon entering the bedroom, Astarion is greeted by the sight of two rather burly looking Dragonborn carefully lifting a plush looking mattress onto a canopy bed. Orlando sits on the floor, hair up in a messy bun, fussing over the drape of the crimson bed skirt. Her beam upon seeing her beloved is enough to brighten the whole room and temporarily make Astarion forget about the ache in his body.

“Ta-da!” she enthusiastically greets, clambering to her feet and gesturing towards the newly assembled bed in the center of the room. Befuddled, Astarion blankly stares at the newest addition to their furniture- well, one of the only additions to their furniture. 

“Thank you, my friends,” he distantly hears Orlando twitter, forking over a hefty bag of coins and showing the two Dragonborn to the door.

“No problem, O,” one of them returns in a gruff yet jovial voice, “Say hi to your mom for us.”

“Will do! You’ll have to join us all for dinner sometime,” she returns, before the door falls shut and she traipses back to join Astarion in the bedroom. She closes the door behind her, an apprehensive look on her face.

“Do you like it?” she ventures quietly, hands clasped behind her back and tail hesitantly swishing against the floor, “I tried to find one I thought you’d like. If you don’t like it, we can return it!”

Astarion silently inspects the bed, inching closer and smoothing his palm along one of the sturdy, oak posters. The thick, velvet curtains, parted and held open with some gold tassel cords, are luxurious underneath his fingertips. He presses a palm against the mattress, testing its firmness. This bed is everything he has ever dreamed of, right down to its gothic, ostentatiousness. He feels his chest constrict, overwhelmed with emotion. Orlando bought him a bed. Bought him a bed that he actually likes. Went out of her way to pick one out that she thought he might appreciate. He can’t remember the last time someone did something like that for him. 

“Like it?” he dreamily starts, sidling over to the side of the bed he’d like to claim as his and flopping down onto the mattress. He bounces briefly before sinking into its heavenly plushness.

“Oh,” he groans, letting his eyelids flutter shut as he luxuriates in the comfort he wishes he had had last night, “It’s magnificent, my darling.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Orlando joyously cries, throwing herself down right beside Astarion, who turns to drape an arm over her. They’re eye to eye, centimeters apart, gazes searching.

“Where in all of Faerûn did you get the money for this?” he exclaims after a silent moment, flabbergasted, “And why couldn’t we have done this yesterday so my arm wouldn’t have to feel like it’s falling off?”

“Well, while you were busy cutting off the circulation to your extremities, I went into town to purchase a couple of necessities using the last of the money we made outside Candlekeep-“

“Money you made,” Astarion cuts in.

“We made,” Orlando emphasizes with a wicked little grin, “Helping that sweet old lady find her missing Gremishka.”

“The wound still stings, you know,” Astarion murmurs, gingerly rubbing his backside.

“Well, think of it this way,” Orlando begins, scooting closer and cupping his face. Astarion rests his hand on the small of her back and smirks as the Tiefling goes on, “Thanks to the small sacrifice your derriere made, we now have one of the nicest, most comfortable beds I could find at Fredweard’s Furniture and Upholstery. Reed and Aria, the owners of the shop, owed me a favor and agreed to help me assemble it. I was hoping it would be done before you got up.”

“Well, it is much appreciated, darling. I-“

Astarion pauses abruptly, casting a suspicious glance at a rather proud looking Orlando. 

“Did you say they helped you assemble it?” he questions, the bed frame creaking ever so slightly as he shifts his weight, “As in, you had a part in the assembly process?”

Astarion recalls Orlando’s insistence back when they visited Gale in Waterdeep, claiming that she knew how to properly reassemble a broken chair with a confidence that would’ve made Professor Dekarios himself look like a diffident neophyte. With a flick of her wrist and an unintelligible utterance, the chair pieced itself back together, only to collapse under poor Gale as soon as he set himself down in it. After several minutes of breathless laughter, Orlando went back to a more traditional method of mending. By the time she was done, she had it sturdier than when Gale bought it, though she vowed never to try to use magic to fix anything ever again. Though skilled in spells pertaining to the mind and the otherworldly, furniture mending is not Orlando’s magical strong suit. Though, she’s picked up enough building skills from her many years partnered with Gortash to make her a threat (albeit, only when it comes to small household items). 

“Mayhaps,” she drawls noncommittally, glancing demurely away, “Magic played no part in it this time. I promise!” 

“I just want to guarantee that I’m not going to be rudely awakened in the middle of my rest when the bed comes crashing down underneath me,” Astarion posits, somewhat jokingly. But only somewhat. Orlando gives an insistent reassurance that the bed will, indeed, hold together. 

“Jokes aside, darling,” Astarion begins after a bit more teasing, smoothing back some errant strands of her dark hair. Orlando’s eyes are bright when they meet his, curious and loving. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against hers and holding her close.

“I’m glad you like it,” she murmurs, voice muffled against him. They lay in one another’s embrace for a while, enjoying the softness of the mattress and each other’s company. This is not Astarion’s first real memory of home, post-Cazador. But it is his first memory of stability. Home has always been wherever he and Orlando are, so long as they are together. But life on the road, in the year after the defeat of the Absolute, was never stable. There was always a constant search for shelter, for food, for money. This house, however, feels solid, sturdy, and comforting. Though it is a work in progress, already in the first two days of living here, Astarion can feel it welcoming them. One day, this cottage will be alive with memory. These first few days are the spark, the strike of a match lighting a hearth. The slow trickle of blood into ventricles aching to burst into life.

“You know,” Orlando slowly starts after a little while, drawing back to look Astarion in the eye. Her gaze is dusky, cheeks dusted pink in the low candlelight, “I can think of a few activities that might test the mettle of this frame.” 

Astarion raises an eyebrow, an impish, lopsided smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Hmmm, perhaps we ought to test if your construction skills have improved,” he purrs, gently gripping Orlando by the back of the neck and swallowing up her laughter with a fervent kiss.

A/N: I wanted to do some dialogue and banter practice this chapter, which was lots of fun! I really enjoy writing domestic fluff and I don't do it nearly enough! Looking forward to writing some more in future chapters. Up next will finally be some smut. Breaking in the new bed and what not, of course. Thank you for reading! Lots of love &lt;3